


April Come She Will

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Somewhere They Can't Find Me [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Clintasha - Freeform, Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He made a face. "So. . .literary chick lit?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I am a chick. I'm sure you're aware of this."</i>
</p><p><i>He went looking in the bookcase. "Never doubt I love you, Tasha."</i> </p><p>
  <i>"I never do," she said, with more sincerity than she'd intended. He glanced over at her and she felt her cheeks heat a little. Goddamn head injuries.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February

**Author's Note:**

> My lovely beta is having some health issues, so this one is self-betaed by the two of us. We did our best :)

If Natasha had realized exactly how much mess and disruption the construction of a set of stairs would cause, she would have opted for the ladder. But now their apartments in the Tower were full of dust and workmen. She made the mistake of mentioning that in a conference call, and that afternoon she got a text from Hill. _Come get out of the dust and help us test something._

She was halfway through typing her reply about not having noticed her transfer to R&D when the second text arrived. _Not a request._

She sighed, staring at her phone. At least it would get her out of the dust.

The phone pinged again. _Bring Barton_

Well. . .shit.

She practiced arguments while hunting Clint down. She didn't think any of them would be particularly persuasive, but she liked the thought exercise. She found him in Stark's media room, perusing the blu rays. "Hey. We got a mission."

He looked up, and smiled. "Music to my ears." A saw wound up somewhere and he winced. "I think it's quieter in Damascus right now." He paused, seeing something on her face. "We're going to Syria, aren't we?"

"Noo." She held up her phone. "Hill wants us at that Triskelion."

She watched several arguments play over his face. Then he sighed. "I really don't—I'm not—Dammit."

"I know. But it is our main building. You'll have to go back eventually."

He looked up at the ceiling. " _God_ dammit."

They had managed to avoid all the major SHIELD buildings since returning from Alaska. They'd spent time in the Tower, done a quick and easy mission in South America - which had been a welcome change from the snow - and generally pretended everything was fine. She went over to him and slid her arms around him in a rare sign of public affection. "It'll probably just be a briefing. In and out and on to greener pastures." She squeezed him. "Aren't you the one who promotes the rip-off-the-bandage school of wound care?"

"Well. . . the Triskelion will certainly do that." He rubbed the back of his neck, and then kissed her forehead. "All right."

She kissed his chin. "I'll meet you in the hanger."

He was already in the cockpit when she got there—he was a man who traveled light, so his packing had probably taken five minutes. The jet hanger in the middle of the building had been a brilliant idea of Stark's, though the exact ownership of this particular plane was unclear. It was for the use of the Avengers, though as far as she knew only Clint and Stark actually knew how to fly it. He was flipping switches and going through his checklist. "I admire your faith," he said as she sat down.

"Well, I am the better pilot, but you're such a backseat driver it's easier to just let you fly."

He gave her a look. She was a terrible pilot. Of course, if he didn't complain so much, she might be better at it. It was like being in a student driver car, with the person in the passenger seat trying to hit an imaginary break pedal. But he didn't comment. What he said instead was, "Just like riding a bicycle."

She leaned back in her chair, shuffling about in a show of getting comfortable. "I have faith in very few things. Consider yourself honored to be at the top of the list."

He grinned at her, put his sunglasses on, and then they were off.

They were somewhere over New Jersey when she could _see_ him realize just how much Stark had upgraded the jets since the last time he flew one, and she was subjected to about fifteen minutes of him slinging the damn thing around like he was auditioning for the Blue Angels. She was going to punch him if he did one more barrel roll, but the grin on his face was kind of worth it.

And they did get there in record time.

Hill met them at the doors after they parked the plane. Parked was probably not the right word but damned if she'd ask him what it was. Maria gave them both sharp nods in hello. "You're early."

"Well, you know, I can't resist such a polite request," Nat said.

Hill started walking, leaving them to follow along. They were in the elevator before she glanced over at Clint. "Didn't bring your bow?"

He didn't look at her, staring straight ahead. So very, very still. "Left it on the jet. I'm not mounting an invasion of HQ."

Nat gave Hill a pleasant smile that successfully detoured her from saying anything smart in response to that. "What am I testing?" she asked

"Fury has a new toy. He insisted you be the final QC."

A toy of Fury's could be just about anything, but requesting Nat specifically was almost certainly bad. Clint glanced over at her, clearly thinking similar thoughts. "Will I also be testing the toy?" he asked. 

"No. You have a meeting with Fury scheduled at 5PM. Until then, you're on your own."

The elevator doors opened. Clint moved so neither of them could get out. "It's 2:30."

Hill shrugged, as the door beeped angrily. "You know where the cafeteria is." She raised an eyebrow and he stepped back. "Five. Don't be late."

Nat followed her reluctantly, mouthing _I'm sorry_ to Clint as she passed him. She was sure he'd been planning to have her next to him the whole time. Still, maybe he was worried for nothing. The agents on Coulson's bus had all been nice to him.

He smiled, and blew her a kiss. She felt an uncharacteristic flush in her neck. Hill was silent, until they were well down a different hallway, "I haven't gotten a chance to tell you. . ." she started.

"If you tell me you owe someone money I will find it within my rights to punch you."

She gave a short laugh. "Betting on someone's sex life is tacky and juvenile." Clearly she saw Nat's eyebrow go up. "Sadly many of our coworkers are both. No reason not to take advantage of them." They went through another set of doors. Hill reached in her pocket and produced a roll of bills. "Buy yourself a pair of Louboutins."

Nat thumbed through the roll. Enough to buy shoes and something nice for Clint. Lot of people had been interested in whether they were bumping uglies, apparently. "Thank you," she said, tucking it in her bag. "So, what am I testing?"

"A lie detector."

*

The cafeteria wasn't quite the gauntlet Clint expected it to be. He got some curious looks, sure, but he wasn't exactly Mr. Smalltalk, so he was happy to get his coffee and sit by the window. He'd half expected someone to shadow him, but Fury was apparently fine to let him wander the building. Which he did, once sitting in a corner of the cafeteria started to feel like hiding. 

It wasn't any worse anywhere else.

He was in a reasonably good mood, for him, when he walked into Fury's fancy office at five.

Fury was glaring at his computer screen, and looked up. "I was half hoping you'd bring that bear head along."

It surprised a laugh out of him. "Jesus." Both Natasha and Coulson tended to be very thorough in their reports. He shouldn't be surprised. He sat in one of the guest chairs. "Good to see you, too, sir."

Fury inclined his head, hitting something to turn his computer—or at least the screen—off. "How's it feel to be back in the hornet's nest?"

"Less sharp and pointy than I expected." He'd deliberately chosen not to be visibly armed, naked as it made him feel. Optics did seem to matter. "Might I ask what you have Agent Romanov testing?"

The other man seemed to consider a moment. "We've had some new enemies pop up while you were on walkabout. Rising Tide is making noise. And a new terrorist cell calling itself Centipede. They've been going after our own agents. I'm feeling a little more paranoid then usual. So I had the techs develop a new kind of lie detector. They tell me it's un-trickable. I said that wasn't true until it caught Romanov in a lie."

"And how is that going?"

"Your girl is twenty-eight and oh, last I checked in."

He grinned, and dodged the comment about 'his girl'. Under no circumstances did he want to discuss that with Fury. "So why did you want me to tag along?"

"I wanted to discuss a mission with you. Well, not the details, yet. Thing’s being worked out. I'm going to need you to hunt someone down." He paused. "Alone."

" _Alone_ -alone?" He hated working without Natasha. The last mission he'd taken without her had, in fact, resulted in. . .Loki. Probably best not to think too much about that.

"Is there more than one kind?"

"There's the one where you just mean going without Romanov. There's the one without a team but with accessible backup, and there's the one where I'm in the jungle in Papua New Guinea with a dead sat phone."

"It's probably closer to door number 3."

"And am I killing my target and burying him in a shallow grave?" He was not doing a retrieval mission with no backup.

"You're watching him for a bit, seeing if our intel is correct. If he's doing what we think he's doing then yes. Though I'd prefer a deep grave."

"And if he's not doing what you think he's doing?"

"Leave him be. Go back to the Xbox at Stark's." Fury lowered his head and glowered at him. "That one's pretty unlikely, though."

"Stark doesn't have an Xbox. He thinks it spies on him." For the denizens of the Tower who liked video games, Stark had them running on a render farm that would make Pixar blush. Man didn't do anything halfway. 

Fury wasn't paying attention anymore, glaring at his phone, which was probably updating him about how Nat continue to stump the lie detector. He looked back up at Clint. "Can she control her involuntary muscles?"

"I don't think anyone can do that, sir." 

"Apparently, she has yet to deviate from her resting neutral. No heartbeat fluctuations. No sweat, no flushed skin. Her goddam eyes don't dilate. They had to switch her out and put someone else in to make sure it wasn't malfunctioning." He stood up and walked around the desk, tapping something on the phone. "They're calling up her medical records to make sure she's not a goddamed robot."

That engaged Clint’s temper, and he took two slow breaths. But it did make sense. To get a physical response, she'd have to be nervous, on some level, about the questions. And she inhabited her personas so well, clearly even her body believed them. And certainly, they couldn't make her afraid. No one would harm her, and she had no stake in the results beyond, perhaps her pride. Fear, however, was not the only base instinct. "You want me to try?"

"The machine?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, asking her questions. I know her better than anyone. I bet I can find something to ask. She's not a robot."

Fury looked him up and down, studying him. Then he nodded and gave his little grin. "Hell, yeah. Come on, this'll be fun."

He took him down in the elevator, down to some basement level Clint had clearance for but hadn't spent any time on. Down a sterile hallway and into a testing room. There, Nat was sitting in something that resembled an electric chair more than a lie detector. Her hands were strapped down, legs hooked in. Wires everywhere. 

She smiled and wiggled her fingers when they walked in. "I broke your toy."

The door to the booth beyond opened. "She just told me she was born in Cleveland in 1962 and passed."

Clint chuckled. Fury shook his head. "Barton thinks you can't lie to him."

Nat arched a brow at him. "No," he corrected. "I said I could prove you weren't a robot."

"Honey, we're at work," she teased.

"She's _flirting_ and there's no deviation!" came a frustrated voice from the booth.

He started towards the booth, Fury following him. Nat called out, "Loser buys dinner," and he grinned. She wouldn't deliberately throw anything she had money on. Besides, really, no one had manual control over their pupils.

"I've tried everything," the tech said as the door closed behind them. "I even asked her some very uncomfortable questions about her past. I'm really not sure she's human." 

He told himself not to punch the tech. It would probably annoy Fury. "Give me the microphone." The tech handed it over with a skeptical look. Clint glanced at the screens in front of him. He could read them worth a damn but he was pretty sure he'd be able to tell when something moved.

"Hey Nat. Where are you ticklish?" he asked into the mic.

"I'm not ticklish, Barton. You should know that." Nothing even flickered. Damn, she was good.

There were absolutely things he could say he knew would move the needle. He could, for example, describe some of his ideas for how they should spend their evening in a nice DC hotel room on SHIELD's dime. But he was pretty sure this was being recorded, and anyway their boss was right there. "Does it have to be a question?"

"No," Fury muttered. "But keep your shirt on."

He didn't dignify that with a response. But it did give him an idea. He'd read once - he did a surprising amount of reading in his nests, stakeouts were boring - that people who dealt with naked bodies professionally became desensitized to the "normal" erogenous zones. They would instead find other, more mundane body parts attractive. Nat, best he could tell, was the same. At least with him.

So, in the same tone of voice he would have used to describe his hotel room ideas, he stared listing shoulder muscles. "Trapezius. Subscapularis. Rhomboid."

He watched on the screen to see her pupils dilate, and her blood pressure raise. Even her heart-rate. She kept her breathing steady, her body still. But you could see it in all the factors she couldn't control.

The tech gaped. "Holy shit."

Clint handed him the mic back. "Not a robot."

"Is that a code?" the tech asked. "You were just listing. . . were those shapes?"

"Don't explain," Fury said dryly.

Clint opened the door, strolling out into the room. She was glaring at him, as he was sure he was giving her quite the shit-eating grin.

"That's cheating," she told him as they unhooked her.

"You owe me dinner," was all he said.


	2. March

Natasha was a prisoner of her own bedroom.

The last couple of days were a bit of a jumble. She remembered the mission, sort of. She didn't remember the blow to the head, just the Chinese hospital she woke up in. Clint hovering, and then finally giving her a mirror so she could see a face that would have done a prizefighter proud. Then SHIELD medevaced her back to the states, where she'd been put to bed, and told to stay off her feet.

At least her jailor was nice to look at.

"The frightening woman at the Russian place knows me by name now," Clint told her, setting the tray of food he'd brought onto her lap. "She called me a good boy today and may try to set me up with her daughter soon. You might need to find a different borscht supplier."

"You don't actually have to bring me Russian soup. I don't have a cold or nostalgia."

"You have a bad concussion," he replied. "You should be well fed." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Head injuries can be serious. People die." 

He was repeating her words to him. The night after the Battle of New York, after she'd picked out the glass slivers, she'd tried to convince him to get his head looked at. She'd hit him hard enough she could have fractured his skull, and then he'd fought all day. He'd insisted that he wouldn't have been able to shoot straight if his brain was swelling. She'd worried at the time, but in her current state she didn't think she could reliably hit a bus with a shotgun, so he'd probably been right.

Still, it was not in her nature to sit idly and be happy about it. "I've had lots of head injuries. I'm bored. At least let me go watch Rogers kick your ass at MarioKart."

"He's in DC." He pointed at her borscht, and she relented and ate some. "They told me I could read to you," he offered.

Well, it was better than nothing. And the borscht _was_ good. He'd looked all over the city for the best Russian deli he could find. She took another spoonful. "I like books."

" _War and Peace_?" he asked.

Somedays she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "I've been making my way through the Brontes, actually."

He made a face. "So. . .literary chick lit?"

"I am a chick. I'm sure you're aware of this."

He went looking in the bookcase. "Never doubt I love you, Tasha."

"I never do," she said, with more sincerity than she'd intended. He glanced over at her and she felt her cheeks heat a little. Goddamn head injuries.

She ate her food, and he took the tray away. She settled into the blankets, and he stretched out next to her on top of them. He cracked open _Wuthering Heights_ , and she closed her eyes. She didn't know when, exactly, she drifted off to the soothing sound of his voice.

It was dark when she woke up, to some sound he made beside her. He was still dressed and still on top of the duvet. Asleep, but she could tell by the sound of his breathing he was having a nightmare.

The last time she'd touched him during a nightmare he'd almost taken her head off with a swing. She kept her hands to herself this time and just said his name, over and over, a little bit louder each time, until he sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. He sat up slowly, and rubbed his face. "Sorry," he said. "I should go downstairs." They both maintained separate bedrooms, as they were people who liked their private space. But mostly they slept in one room or the other together. It had been a while since they slept apart.

"You can stay," she said softly. "You weren't thrashing or anything." She scooted to sit up and kissed his cheek. "You want to talk?"

He was still for a moment, and then he leaned back, turning on his side to face her. He stayed on top of the blankets, but she didn't comment on that. She was surprised when he said, "What if I hadn't woken up?"

"I would have gone to get my poking stick," she said, even though she was fairly certain he wasn't talking about tonight.

"After Loki. . . what if you'd cracked my skull? Or he'd scrambled my brains so bad I was nuts? Or a vegetable?"

They thought made a pit form in her stomach. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek, smoothed his hair back. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I would have taken care of you. No matter what."

"Would they have let you?"

She blew out a breath. Probably not. Maybe if there'd been time Fury would have thought of it. Coulson. Someone. But he might have just been processed into one of their holding facilities somewhere. Taken care of. But not by her. Not cleared with her. "I would have tried."

"I almost got into a fist fight in the hospital in Shenyang. They took you from me and shut the door in my face and I was stuck out there until Agent Xu got there from Beijing. Family only."

It had happened to both of them when one was hurt. She used to lie, tell them she was his sister, but people had stopped believing her. Hospitals were getting stricter now. She slid her hand down and found his hand, weaving her fingers with his. "You getting at something, Clint?"

"Just that I would want you to be my next of kin. You _are_ my next of kin, in that context. My significant other. You're the person I'd trust to pull the plug."

This was probably not a conversation they should be having in the middle of the night after a bad dream and a head injury. Still, wasn't like either of them were going back to sleep soon. "There's paperwork you can draw up for that, isn't there? I mean, neither of us have much of a footprint, but we could probably write up something."

His eyes searched her face. "I can look into it. If you're all right with that." 

She lifted a shoulder. "Don't know that I would have thought of it myself. But you're right, sooner or later something's going to happen to one of us. And I'd want you making those decisions. No one knows me better. Barring that, I don't want to wake up in a strange hospital somewhere and not have you be there because some nurse was feeling particularly bureaucratic."

Clint touched her face gingerly, as it was still very bruised. "I wish I could keep you safe."

She leaned into his touch as much as she could. "I like my job," she told him. "I like what we do. We watch each other's backs, but shit is going to happen."

"I know. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "Just the bad dreams."

She kissed his forehead. "It's all right. I want to protect you sometimes, too." She stroked his hair. "You want me to read to you?"

He smiled. "No. But I may get under the covers."

"Good." She shifted so he could do so, then curled up on her side so he could spoon around her. "I sleep better when you're here, anyway." He slid his arm around her waist, and kissed her hair. He made her _feel_ safe. And that was something.

*

The bruises on her face had started to turn yellow when Natasha wandered out one morning and found Clint in the midst of a sea of paperwork on the dining room table. She was a welcome sight, and was looking much better. "Hey," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Stir crazy." She wandered into the kitchen and came out a moment later to sit across from him. "What's all this?"

"The next of kin paperwork." He rubbed his forehead. "I think we need a lawyer."

She picked up some of the paper closest to her and skimmed it. "Jesus, I'd say so. I don't think this is English." She sipped her coffee, scanning the table. "All this so you can tell people I don't want to be a vegetable?"

"I thought we might want to cover all bases. Property, inheritance, etc. That," he said, pointing to one stack, "Is just the bank paperwork. What I get for keeping my money is Switzerland. I assume you do the same."

"Of course." She sipped her coffee again, looking thoughtful. "All this would be automatic if we were married, wouldn't it?"

"I believe that is why people fight so hard for marriage rights." There was silence, so he looked up at her. "Nat?"

She watched him over her cup. "Well, I'm not going to say it. I'm the chick."

He stared at her. "Are you _serious_?"

"We agreed this was important to both of us. I don't want to get a lawyer involved and this -" She waved a dismissive hand at the papers. "Is ridiculous. Marriage license costs twenty bucks."

Clint was really too stunned to speak for a moment. But it did make a great deal of sense. And really, were two people like them ever going to marry anyone for real? Unlikely. At the moment, he couldn't really imagine a scenario where he'd want anyone other than her anyway. "We don't have to have a. . . wedding, do we?" There was probably a little too much distaste in his voice, but he really couldn't help it.

"Of course we do. Couple hundred guests. Frilly white gown. Cathedral train. I think a morning wedding, you'd look good in tails." It was all said in complete seriousness. Too much seriousness. She'd tipped over into teasing monotone.

He grinned. "Full veil, too? And a giant bouquet of roses. Should I go buy the biggest, tackiest diamond at Tiffany's?"

She shook her head. "No rings. Not in our line of work. We probably need a witness or two, though. We know anyone who can keep their mouth shut and won't rupture something laughing?"

"Or take it too seriously." He moved a bunch of papers off his laptop and opened it so he could google how one got married in New York City. "Coulson would do it, and then buy us a silver tea service."

"You can never have too many tea sets." Nat got up to peer over his shoulder. "Oh, what about May? That would be hilarious."

"I want it to be actually legal, and she's not going to fork over her real ID." He scrolled down the page. "We could hire someone. Literally anyone over 18 with a driver's license could do it. Keeps it totally compartmentalized."

She rested her chin on his shoulder. "I don't want someone who could go to the press. I'm still fairly recognizable." She made a quite hum, her thinking noise. "Hill?"

"Hill who ran the SHIELD 'are they doing it' betting pool?"

"She did give us a cut," she pointed out.

"We need someone who won't make use of the knowledge." He looked up. "Who is the most honest and trustworthy person we know?" 

They looked at each other a moment, then she sighed and covered her eyes with a hand. "He's totally going to want me to have a frilly dress."

*

It wasn't frilly, and it wasn't precisely white, but Nat was wearing a dress. Steve had made a very logical argument that they didn't want to be conspicuously underdressed, lest someone pick them out from the crowd and notice. Nat was more concerned about people noticing _him_ , but he'd gotten good at blending.

_It is a serious occasion,_ he'd told them.

And for those few moments they had to recite vows, she thought maybe he wasn't wrong.

Clint dipped her at the end of the kiss, which was kind of fun. Then Steve threw some bird seed or confetti or something on them. They all filled the license out, and then they walked out of the courtroom so the next couple could have their turn. And just like that she was married to Clint Barton.

Surely hell was feeling a bit chilly right now.

He leaned over to pick confetti out of her hair. "The guy behind us was wearing a flannel shirt," he commented.

"Your generation is full of sloppy dressers," Steve replied. "I didn't make you wear a suit."

Nat smoothed a hand over Clint's shirt. "You look very nice, honey," she said in her best 50s Housewife voice.

He rolled his eyes. "I'm going to hail a cab. Anybody feel like Chinese?"

"I think egg rolls and sweet and sour pork strikes the right note of solemnity for this occasion, yes."

She watched him step into the street. She could feel Steve next to her, being almost conspicuously silent. Finally he said, "Thank you."

Startled, she looked up at him. "What for?"

"Inviting me to be here," he replied.

She smiled and patted his back. "There wasn't anyone else we'd rather have," she said honestly. "Thank you for coming."

A cab was pulling up to the curb. "Go," he said. "I'll get the next one."

It was kind of cute he wanted to give them alone time. She went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then joined Clint at the cab, slipping inside as he held the door.

"Is Steve—" he started to ask as she pulled him into the cab. He looked at her. "Should I have checked the back of the cab for cans?"

"He said he'd get the next one. I think he thinks we need time alone. Newlyweds and all." She kissed his cheek. "Hello, husband."

He made a face. "Don't you start, too."

She shrugged. "I think it's funny." She rested her head on his shoulder as the cab wound through the city. "Don't be so grumpy. It's your wedding day." He made a sound that was both a groan and a sigh. She hadn't realized this would give her another button to press when she felt like teasing him. How delightful.

He pulled out his phone and ordered them their dinner, asking the cab to swing through chinatown so he could get it from his favorite place. They'd eaten most of the egg rolls by the time the cab dropped them off at home.

They managed to get up to their floors without being spotted. She changed into comfortable clothing and they lounged in her living room with their dinner. Was it hers still? Did it count as 'theirs' now? Maybe they could talk about redecorating. Make a game room out of one of the living rooms.

Right. Who was she and what had she done with Nat?

"So," he said finally, reaching into his carton to spear a piece of broccoli. "Clearly this didn't go as planned." 

"Says who? We're legally married. All our next of kin stuff is settled. Took twenty minutes and you got to dip me in public." She stole a piece of beef from his dinner. "I call that a successful op, Barton."

"Tasha," he said quietly. It was dangerous, sometimes, being with someone who knew you better than you knew yourself.

She sighed. "I am not freaking out. Why are you acting like you're expecting me to?"

The silence was very long. "'Cause maybe I am."

Immediately, she got up and sat next to him on the couch. She took his hand in both of her and held it in her lap. "Talk to me."

He pulled his hand back. "Look, it's not—" He shook his head. "Clearly you're fine, this is fine. Don't worry about it."

"No. I want to know what's going on with you. I know it was my idea but I thought you were okay with it. What changed?"

"I'm perfectly okay with it," he replied. "Nothing changed. It was a good idea." His stare back at her was very level. It was a face that said he wasn't interested in discussing it. She'd long learned it was nearly impossible to get anything out of that face. Even for her. But she stared him down, and was surprised when he softened. "We still have so much armor," he said, his voice quiet.

"Well, you knew that when you married me," she teased. Hesitantly, she took his hand again. "You are the only person I've ever said ‘I love you’ to and meant it. There's no one else I would ever, _ever_ have even suggested doing this for. I feel stuck in this weird place where I feel like we've done something very serious and important but also slightly ridiculous. And I can't get a read on which side of the equation you're leaning on."

He cupped her cheek and stroked her skin gently with his thumb."It's paperwork. All angles and logic and big picture. That is where I live. And the entire ceremony rigamarole _was_ ridiculous. I don't really know why it made me. . .feel something."

She smiled and turned to kiss his wrist. "I could give you a speech about being conditioned by society to place a certain value on marriage. And how we operate outside of society's structure and don't have to adhere to their beliefs." She scooted closer to wrap her arms around him. "Just because it doesn't mean to us what it means to the twenty somethings in line with us doesn't mean it has to mean _nothing_. You're my husband. I'm your wife. That means something to me. It makes me happy."

His hand slid into her hair. "I like that you're mine."

"I was always yours. Now it's just legally recognized." He pulled her head down, and kissed her with the sort of intensity that reminded her of when they'd been out in the woods. When they were brand new and still trying to figure out how to express what they felt; before either of them had entirely been able to say it.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt. "Regardless of our thoughts on the ceremony," she murmured on his mouth. "I think we can agree the wedding night will be a lot of fun."

One of the surprising revelations of having a real relationship was just how many different kinds of sex you could have with the same person. When they'd gone to DC for the lie detector test, he'd spent the entire car ride from HQ to their hotel whispering dirty things in her ear. When they got upstairs, it was so fast and rough that they both required bandaids afterward, and didn't notice until after they hadn't fully closed the door. In Beijing, they'd been stuck in a dingy and freezing cold motel room, and it had been slow and quiet. Both of them working out their tension about the coming mission, and trying to stay warm.

The best, though, were the times that made her laugh. And the times that felt overwhelmingly. . .normal. Despite their unusual afternoon, straddling him on her— _their_ —couch, surrounded by dinner's take-out containers made her feel just a bit like a regular person.

Not that it still didn't make her see stars.

A week later, she helped him pack for his solo op, the first one since he'd returned from Alaska. And by help, she meant criticize his wardrobe choices and nag him about anything he'd forgot. "Are you sure that's enough shirts? You know how you go through them. And I won't be there to admire you, so there's no benefit to you being topless."

He laughed. "I'll be fine. Don't fuss." He zipped his bag. "Have fun on your adventures with Steve."

"Hmph. I think I'd rather be sitting in the jungle with you. Fury's getting all super-spy again. Last time he did that there were aliens and green rage monsters."

"Opportune time to ship me off somewhere, eh?" He said it very casually, but she didn't miss his shoulders tightening.

Sometimes she wondered if they would ever stop stepping on those land mines. "Don't read into it. Stark likes to say Fury's secrets have secrets. Only he know why he does anything."

"No, I know. That's what you do, and this is what I do. Sometimes they're in different places." He turned. "I have something for you."

She sat up. "You do? What is it?" Presents between them weren't unusual. Though they were rarely at holidays and often weapons. There was a new Taurus 738 she'd been eyeing. Though, if he'd gotten her the pink one she was going to punch him.

Instead he produced a tiny box from one of his pockets. He cleared his throat. "Call it a wedding present."

She took it, looking at him skeptically. "We said no jewelry." And this was a jewelry box if ever she'd seen one.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "We said no rings. It's not a ring."

He had his stubborn face on. So she just opened it. Nestled on a tiny pillow of dark blue velvet was a necklace with a little gold arrow on it. She felt her mouth curl into a smile and looked up at him. "I love it."

"Just something to remind you I'm coming back," he said quietly, his voice barely above a rumble.

She couldn't explain the sudden tightness in her throat at that. She looked back at the necklace, hooking one fingers through the chain to hold it up. With a few quick motions she fastened it around her neck, then stood to wrap her arms around him. "Looks good?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." He kissed her. "Be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He paused. "Unless you have to."

"That's not much of a list." She kissed him again. "Be safe. Maybe when you get back I'll wear something lacy and red you can rip off me." Clint seemed to look at lingerie as literal wrapping paper. Fortunately, she had enough disposable income to afford very nice wrappings.

"You're on," he replied, rubbing his thumb over the necklace.

She drew his head down for a long, deep kiss that curled her toes. "Get going," she said when they parted. "I love you. I'll see you soon."


	3. April

The first sign of trouble was when Clint sent the coded message indicating the job was done, and he was ready for his lift. There was no acknowledgement or reply. He was in the middle of the Amazon, two days from anything resembling civilization. He contemplated a problem with the sat phone, or the satellite itself. He'd make his way back to the nearest fishing village to see if he could find a normal phone. 

If not, he'd be able to buy a burner eventually, and call his taxi. The worst case scenario, he had a bolt-hole in Lima that he was pretty sure had a Canadian passport and cash in the safe. He could fly home like a tourist. He went and killed himself some dinner, and tried not to worry about it.

He only made as far as Iquitos, though, before he saw the footage of the helicarriers crashing into the Triskelion on TV. 

And that wasn't even remotely the worst yet.

His entire agency had been infested by Hydra, of all things. Rotten, apparently, right down to the core. Within hours, websites had popped up indexing and cataloging all the files that had been released. All of SHIELD's secrets on the internet, for all to see. He spent an hour in a cafe browsing it. His past was there. Nat's. Every secret anyone thought they had, now with its own wiki page.

The news claimed Fury was dead but Clint figured that was as accurate as Bigfoot sightings.

He spent a couple days in a bar in Lima drinking beer and trying to figure out his next move. He had cash and the passport, but America didn't look like the friendliest place to be right now. It wasn't until he saw footage of Nat at a hearing, her arrow glinting at her neck, that anything resembling a plan came to him.

Years ago, they'd picked out places all over the world where they would meet if everything went to shit. She hadn't entirely trusted SHIELD, back in those days. But she had trusted him, and wanted to make sure no matter how sideways things went, they could find each other. Like the emergency meeting spots for every mission, only on a meta scale.

In hindsight, that was probably the beginning of whatever the two of them had that was beyond any other pre-existing loyalties, anything that might be called just friendship. But it wasn't something they'd discussed in years. He could only hope her mind turned the same way his did right now.

Right now, she was the only person on Earth he was certain he could trust.

When he got back to his room he dug out his maps and tried to figure out the closest safe spot he could get to. She'd only had a basic idea of where his mission had been, but she'd know he wouldn't be able to get over the border without SHIELD support. There was a spot in Terre del Fuego that they'd earmarked, but that was a continent away. Which left. . .

He grinned. Zihuatanejo, Mexico.

Well, he could get some good tequila while he waited.

First, there was the matter of getting there. He took a detour through Mexico City so he could get at his money. He wasn't sure if the Swiss would eventually freeze his accounts for the US government—or would decide he was evil enough to do it on their own—but he wanted as much cash as he could get without throwing up red flags. Then he crossed the country to the bustling tourist town on the ocean. 

All their spots were on the water. Mobility was important, and the objective of the first person to arrive there was to get a boat. After a thorough search of the marinas, he felt confident she wasn't there. 

He got the boat, got the tequila, and he waited. It was dangerous for him to just sit there in one spot, but sit he did. It was an act of faith.

He was there five days. Long enough to worry she'd been arrested. Or "detained." Or tracked down by some old enemy. Long enough to wonder if she'd forgotten about their long ago plans. 

Then he saw her. 

He was lounging on the boat, nursing a Cuervo and reading a Louis L'Amour novel. He happened to glance up while turning the page and saw her hair, bobbing along the marina among all the dark heads. He stood and she spotted him, changing course immediately. She had a small duffel and was dressed like a tourist, long maxi dress and leather sandals. Her necklace glinted in the sun.

She reached the boat and he went to help her in. He'd expected a joke or a saucy quip. But she just threw her arms around his neck and hung onto him. He held her, pressing his face into her hair, stroking his hands over her back. She was safe. She was his.

After a few minutes she leaned back. Her nose was pink and her eyes red rimmed but any tears must have soaked into his shirt. She touched his face, his throat, his shoulders, as if determining he was real. "You all right?"

"Now I am. You're here," he said, and then he kissed her. They had a lot of things to talk about. But right now he just didn't want to. She sighed, her whole body relaxing and melting against his. Her fingers twined into his hair and she kissed him back for all she was worth.

He lifted his head to whisper, "We should take this below deck." She nodded, and so he took her hand, leading her down the narrow steps into the cabin. In the dim light down there, he pulled her dress off her shoulders, and saw the very large bandaid on the front of her shoulder. He reached around her back and located the matching bandaid over the exit wound. "Tasha," he said softly.

"Second time that bastard's shot me," she muttered with a wry smile. "Steve needs better taste in friends." She shook her head at his confused look. "Long story."

She'd been there. In the middle of it, whatever had happened. Of course she had. He'd have to ask her to tell him the story. Later, apparently, because she was kissing him again. He pushed the stretchy dress all the way down now. The strapless bra under it felt lacy, and when he looked down he was surprised to see it was red. He was equally surprised to feel tears sting his eyes, at the completely incongruous flash of normal. "I love you," he whispered, his voice rough, as he unhooked it carefully.

"I love you," she replied, just as soft. "I promised you red and lacy." She undid the buttons of his shirt and tugged it off, grinning. "You got tan."

"Helped me blend." He hooked his thumbs in her panties and pulled them down, not wanting to rip them. Who knew how much clothing she had. He fought with his belt, so he could get off the rest of his clothes, so they were both naked.

He eased her onto the bed, cautious of her shoulder and any other aches and pains she might have. A good sized bed with a decent mattress had been on his short list of requirements when finding a boat. He heard her sigh as she hit the sheets, then her hands started roaming him, part caress and part something else. Like she was still reassuring herself he was real and they were together again. He understood the impulse. He didn't put any weight on her, leaning over her so he could kiss any place on her skin that pleased him. He toured her scars, a list her shoulder would one day be on. Badges of battles won or at least survived. He kissed the one just above her hipbone, a remnant of the closest he'd come to losing her, back when that had been an event he might have been able to see the other side of. Not anymore. 

Memory flickered, and he lifted his head. "Wait, that guy?"

She actually laughed and cupped his face. The look she gave him was pure adoration. "How did you even-? Yes. That guy. The Soldier himself."

"I'd believe that guy could crash a helicarrier."

"Technically, that was Steve."

"What?" He held up his hands. "No. Don't explain. I'm betting it's complicated and I am really. . . too hard to follow along. There's no blood in my brain right now."

She laughed again, softer and drew him down for a kiss. "Yes. Story time later." She sighed, legs shifting restlessly against his. "I missed you," she murmured.

"I missed every bit of you." He moved his hand between her legs, sliding his fingers in her wet sex. That got him a sharp intake of breath, and he stroked his thumb over her clit. She hummed in pleasure, hips rocking.

He teased her slowly. After all this time he knew her quite well, all her little tells, exactly how to unravel her. Part of him wanted to make this fast and rough, sink deep into her and have them leave their marks on each other. But she was wounded and they'd both been through a lot. He was sure she had worried about him as much as he'd worried for her. Their future was uncertain, but right now they had each other and this. So he wanted to make it good.

She got close to release twice and both times he slowed down, backed off, drawing it all out. Until she was flushed and sweaty, slick and swollen against his fingers. She clutched at his shoulders, the back of his head. He expected threats but instead got little whimpers. "Please, Clint. Baby, please."

He wanted to be inside her when he made her come. He wanted to feel it. He shifted her carefully, wary of her shoulder, wary of his weight. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

They moved together, until they were on their sides, her on her good arm, facing each other. He piled pillows between her and the wall of the boat she she was supported, wounded shoulder cushioned. She wound her left leg over his hips, lining them up so the head of his cock slid through her folds, eliciting a moan and another whimpering plea from her. He pulled her closer, pushing all the way inside. It felt so good for a moment his thoughts blurred, and nothing else existed. He could hear her gasp, a desperate, shaky sound.

It took a few awkward strokes to find their rhythm. Then they moved with ease. Her bad arm held his shoulder, just a little weaker then usual. He kissed her face and she murmured to him, stupid nonsense with a little Russian mixed in. Her body grew hot around him and he knew she was close again.

They were here and they were alive and they had each other. He held her, held on even though every fiber in his body was screaming for release. He tugged her knee up higher, the change in angle nearly blinding him, and earning him a cry from her. He felt the first ripples of her climax start and hitched her closer, thrusting as deep as he could so he could feel every pulse, every clenching muscle. She shook in his arms, whispering his name as she rode it out. He couldn't have stopped then if the devil himself had ordered him to. It slammed through him, making his mind and the entire world go quiet in the rush of pleasure.

Neither let go or tried to move, even long after they'd calmed. Eventually, she shifted her arm like it hurt and he rearranged the pillows so she could lay back. He lay on his slide next to her and she held his hand with her good arm. "Love you," she mumbled.

She looked exhausted, dark shadows beneath her eyes visible even in the dim light. The orgasm, the gentle rocking of the ship—he could tell she was struggling to stay awake. How well had she slept in the last weeks? Probably as well as him, and he didn't have a gunshot wound. A nap would do them both good.

He pulled the sheet and thin blanket over them, tucking her in. He kiss her temple. "I love you," he told her. "I'll take care of you. You're safe. Sleep."

She murmured something incoherent and her breathing changed as she slipped into sleep.

*

When Nat woke up Clint made her dinner, grilled fish and veggies plus a fruit cup for dessert. They made love again - this time a little rougher, as she assured him she was fine and not made of glass. Then, naked and tangled in sheets, she told him the whole story. From the mission on the Numerian Star, to the flash drive, the attack on Fury, all the way up the Winter Soldier's real identity, the helicarriers and releasing the SHIELD files to the world.

"I gave Steve all the information I could find on his friend and left him and Sam to it," she finished up. "Then I came to find you. I stopped at a few safe houses on the way to get cash, didn't know what our next step would be but money is never a bad idea."

"I did spend most of mine on this boat," he commented. He shifted to look at her. "How do you tell who's evil and who's not? Can we trust anyone?"

"Well, we got a lot of them taking the Triskelion down. It became pretty obvious who was shooting at who. Hill has a list, though it may just be in her head. And there was some information in the files." She folded her good arm under her head. "There'll be coming out of the woodwork for a while, is my guess."

"Well," he said with a sigh. "I suppose I can cross a number of names off my death-guilt list."

"There you go. Find the silver lining."

She watched him stare at the ceiling of the cabin. She could see him thinking. "Have you talked to any of the others?"

"Stark wasn't answering. I exchanged emails with Bruce and he's okay, if a little disillusioned. Thor is in London with Jane, still. We Skyped while I was in Texas, before I crossed the border. He's not really up on all the history, but is still willing to come to the defense of Earth, even if there's no SHIELD to order us around."

He sighed. "Did feel like home for a little while, there, didn't it?"

"Should have know it couldn't last," she agreed. She leaned over to kiss his shoulder. "The chaos will settle again. Stark owns the Tower, not SHIELD. He'll save us a spot."

"Here I was afraid we were going to have to spend the rest of our lives on a remote island. People are going to be coming for us. For you." He sat up. "I need more guns."

She put a hand on his back. "You don't need to go buy them right now," she said softly. "It'll be ok."

He turned and looked at her, his eyes serious. She could see the worry on his face. It had been such a long, terrible week. "I will arm this thing like the _Yamato_ , Tash."

With effort, she sat up and slid her arms around him. "I know you will, Clint. But I covered my tracks and we have no ties to this place. That's why we picked it. No one's coming knocking tonight."

"I suppose it'd be better to sail down to Baranquilla and get them there." It sounded a little reluctant a concession, but she'd take it.

"I've always liked boats," she said. "Being on the water is peaceful."

He laid back down, and she moved to curl up against him, resting her head on his chest. She was fairly certain he would actually attempt to take on the entire US Navy in this little boat if he had to, just to keep her safe. "We could just sail around for a while," he said.

"That might be nice. We never did take that honeymoon."

Slowly, his fingers sifted through her tangled hair. "We could be somebody else together."

"We can be whatever we want," she said softly. "No one's checking in. No one's going to send us on a mission. We could live small, find somewhere and stay off the grid. We know how."

"Get a bar, build a still, hunt for dinner. I still miss that sometimes."

"Somewhere warm this time," she said in a tone that she hoped invited no argument. "I am done with snow."

"Mmm." His worry seemed to have settled. She could tell by how he relaxed, and also how his left hand had decided to go wandering. "Will you get a bikini?"

"And show my scars to the world?" she asked, feigning horror. "No, no. Full coverage one pieces for me."

He grinned. "Right. Vladivostok it is."

His thumb was teasing her nipple. She arched into his hand. "No. No snow." She closed her eyes. "Maybe you can convince me to wear a bikini."

"I can be _very_ persuasive."

His hand began to wander south and she shivered pleasantly. "I find myself very vulnerable right now. Very susceptible to your persuasions."

Then his hand stilled, just for a moment. "Nat?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him, wondering exactly how much cold water he was about to dump on her. "What?"

"I never told anyone at SHIELD about Boris."

Her brow furrowed. "The bear or the persona?"

"The alias. It was solid, I was hiding from SHIELD, and sort-of you. You can't trace it to the real me, and he's got everything - a cultivated social security number, credit history, money, everything. Never put the details in the report."

She stared at him a moment. Up till that point she had been mostly dreaming. She figured they'd hide out a while, let the fall out settle down, then go back home. But with an actual alias. A functional ID. . . "I don't know if I have anything that's not burned."

"Well. . ." he looked a little embarrassed. "Boris had a wife. Ex-wife. I made her to add realism. A lone ID, not matter how good, if it's not connected to others, it's fishy. And when I was running scenarios, it was theoretically possible there could one day be one where you'd show, and I wasn't ready to leave, and you'd—you'd stay."

For some reason, the first thing that came to her mind was, "Her name isn't Natasha, is it?"

He laughed out loud. "No. Her name is Jennifer. She's not as deep as Boris, but she's solid, legal, and most importantly, clean."

She nodded. "Well. . . that's a start, isn't it?"

He pulled her closed enough to kiss. "It's a start."


	4. June

Clint wasn't sure if the tiny, Venezuelan beachfront town they'd settled in really had a 'tourist season,' but there was a semi-steady stream of both locals and backpacking Europeans wandering through the little cantina they'd purchased. Enough people that he and Natasha didn't stand out, but not so many that trouble could sneak up on them.

The property was ramshackle, but right on the beach. The kitchen in the back couldn't have passed a health inspection before they spent a week doing nothing but scrubbing. There were enough rooms above it that they could probably open an inn someday. For the moment, they were content to serve liquor and snacks that wouldn't kill people.

For now, he was content to sit alone in the little outdoor seating area where you could see the water, sip a beer and enjoy the view.

On the beach itself, he could see Natasha stretched out in a lounge chair under a large umbrella. He missed her red hair desperately, but the dark dye helped them look less conspicuous. She had a tan, carefully dispensed from a bottle, as her skin wouldn't cooperate. His was natural, and by this point so dark he pretty well blended with the locals.

He watched her close her book, get up from her chair, tie on her sarong and saunter back up towards the cantina. She did, in fact, have a very tiny bikini on. The tattoo that snaked up from beneath the bottoms and covered the gunshot scar was perhaps his favorite new addition. As definitive a mark as any declaring the end of her life as a spy. She planned to do the same with the shoulder one, when it was fully healed.

She stopped next to his chair and bent slowly to give him a lazy kiss. "You have that smile on your face," she murmured.

"Which one is that?"

"The 'God my wife is hot, how did I get so lucky?' smile."

"You know, that is remarkably close to what I was thinking." He pushed the table back so he could pull her into his lap. "Are you hungry?"

She wound her arms around his neck, then kissed him again, deeper this time. "Yes," she murmured. She pressed an open mouthed kiss to his jaw. "But not for food," she added. It was gratifying to know that even after all this time they were never bored of each other. Maybe they never would be. God knew she still kept him on his toes.

"Good, the kitchen's closed." She smelled like coconut sunscreen, saltwater, and paradise. He kissed her shoulder. "I _think_ there's a bed upstairs."

"Is there? Then why do we keep ending up on the table?" A kiss below his ear. "And the wall." A nip to his throat. "And the floor."

"I don't know," he said, cupping her breast through the bikini top. "Because you lay on the beach every morning and read porn?"

She hummed in pleasure and he felt her nipple peak against his palm. "No, honey. It's erotica. It's classy."

He stood with her in his arms. "Tash, that was not a complaint." She laughed and kissed his mouth as he carried her inside, towards the back entrance, where the stairs to their apartment were. He could cover every inch of this building with his eyes closed, so he saw no reason to stop kissing her, even when he started to climb the steps.

Halfway up she stiffened in his arms and lifted her head. He stilled, listening to the footsteps out in the bar. "Someone's here," she whispered in his ear. 

Clint nodded, setting her down slowly. She had no weapons on her—obviously—and he had only a knife on him. Not spending every moment like someone was about to kill you had become an important part of their new life. It was almost certainly a customer out there. But since it wasn't entirely impossible some angry person from Nat's past had tracked them down, he slid the knife out of its sheath.

Besides, whomever they were, they'd interrupted his damn nooner.

He pushed open the door between the kitchen and the barroom. Phil Coulson was leaning on his bar, dressed like a tourist.

Clint stopped dead in his tracks. Nat peered over his shoulder and made a little noise of surprise. "You're not in a suit," she said incredulously.

"Your hair is brown," he replied. Then he added. "I didn't want to blow your cover."

Clint tucked his knife away and stepped into the bar. "We appreciate that. You want a drink?"

"A beer would be nice."

He pulled out three of them, and Nat put her hand on the small of his back and kissed his shoulder. "I'm going to go up and put on something more substantial." He made a noise of complaint, but she was already heading for the stairs.

Coulson watched her go, then took the beer Clint offered him and popped the top. "I barely recognized her. Either of you."

"That's quite the point." He inclined his head. "You want to take these outside? Good to see you, by the way."

"Thanks. Outside is fine." He followed Clint out onto the patio over looking the ocean. "You were hard to find, if it matters."

"Good." He sat and propped his feet up. "Nat's got an email address she uses to talk to some of the guys, she checks it whenever we're someplace big enough for public wi-fi."

"I have a hacker on my team. Don't know if you remember her, Skye? She can find just about anyone, no matter how much they want to hide. I've been giving her a lot of practice the last month or so."

Clint watched him. "You're recruiting." It wasn't a question.

Coulson paused as Nat came out of the doors, carrying her beer. She'd changed into a light, floral sundress. She ignored the chair they'd pulled over for her and perched on the arm of Clint's, presenting a united front. "Did I hear recruiting?" she asked quietly.

Coulson cleared his throat. "After everything fell apart Fury tracked me down. Answered some questions for me. And passed the baton, so to speak. I'm rebuilding SHIELD. From the ground up. No Hydra, no politics. Just good people. People I trust."

"And the mission?" Nat asked, deceptively calm as she drank her beer.

"Protection," Coulson said. "To be a shield against threats great and small."

Clint sighed, not sure how to articulate how he felt. That the nightmares had stopped. That their life here was simple, but it made them happy—which had not been a regular state in his previous life. So he tried something else. "Our rather unpleasant pasts are splashed all over the internet. Doesn't make us look like the good guys. And covert isn't really on the menu anymore."

"I'm not asking for covert. And I don't care what your pasts say, I know you're the good guys. It's not going to be cloak and dagger assassinations. I just-"

"No," Nat said softly.

Clint looked up at her, his hand on the small of her back. Behind him Coulson asked, "No?"

"Yeah. No. We can go around a dozen times with you promising us it's different but we know it won't be. Clint and I have very specific sets of skills. Sooner or later, you will want us to use them. And my answer is no."

Coulson had not expected that. "Tash-"

"No one tried to shoot me today," she said. "Or yesterday. I go out unarmed somedays. The nightmares haven't stopped, but they're getting better." She put a hand on Clint's shoulder. "When the carriers went down we were thousands of miles apart. No way to contact each other. It took me two weeks to get to him and I spent the entire time not knowing if he was alive or captured or even knew what had happened. I'm never doing that again, Phil. Not even for you."

"SHIELD had us doing some very morally questionable stuff," Clint said after a moment. "Things you probably don't even know about because Fury put you in a category of people who had a conscience. It was bad enough when I was sure we were the good guys. Now I wonder how many of their 'bad seeds' I took out while Hydra was plotting their mass execution." He took a drink of his beer. "I'm done killing people." 

"Guys, I know you're both disillusioned. We all are. Hydra was a hard pill to swallow. People I thought I knew were- One of my team, someone I hand picked, turned out to be working with Garret." For a moment Coulson looked angry and haunted. He took a swig of his bottle. When he spoke again, he was quiet, "I need people I know I can trust."

Clint looked up at Nat, who was watching Coulson. Her expression gave nothing away, but she sounded sad when she spoke. "I'm sorry for that. But this isn't disillusioned. This is . . . broken. I thought I was doing something good. Making up for my past. And I found out I was telling the same lies I always was. I can't do it again. For the first time _in my life_ I'm not taking orders. I'm living, instead of waiting for the next mission. Are you really asking me to give that up?"

He pulled on her gently, so she'd come off the chair arm and sit on his lap. They didn't spend as much time talking about things as they should. The ugly past and the intimidating future were both huge and serious. But they both knew that, and they both knew each other, so they existed in their symbiotic quiet, enjoying the present. He thought, after everything, that they'd earned that. 

"No," Coulson said. "I'm not. In fact, I'd thought you might feel as lost as I did, and be looking for somewhere to. . .be."

Nat pressed her face into Clint's hair a moment. He could tell from her breathing she was getting herself under control so she wouldn't cry. He rubbed her back gently. Finally, she lifted her head. "I think we already found it."

Coulson nodded, studying his beer intently. "You know, we unearthed a bunch of Hydra's files. Recruitment notes on the susceptibility of various high level agents. Their MO was to get the target alone, make the pitch, and kill them if unsuccessful. The files on you two said that they couldn't get one without the other, but that if they put the two of you in one room it would be impossible to kill you absent blowing the whole building."

Clint had to fight the urge to hold up his hand for a high five. It didn't seem appropriate, given the tone of the conversation. Nat smiled, though. "It's good to know we are incorruptible in our own way."

"I think it also means you're safe. As long as you stay together. If Hydra was afraid of you, I don't imagine anybody else is going to come knocking."

"You're always welcome to come have a beer," Clint said and Nat nodded in agreement.

"It's a nice place," he replied diplomatically.

"It's a work in progress," Clint replied. "And look," he said, quieter. "You know where we are. So does Stark. If there were another New York, we'd come." He thought so, anyway. He looked up at Natasha for confirmation.

She nodded again. "Saving the world is a different story."

"I suppose I can handle that." He looked up. "But I will miss you guys. I do miss you guys." 

Nat slipped off his lap and crouched next to Coulson's chair. She touched his wrist gently. "We miss you, too. I wish it could be different. I do." She was quiet a moment. "You don't have to take up the mantle for Fury. You've already given your life for SHIELD. You could disappear as easily as we did. Do anything. Go anywhere." She paused again. "Portland, even."

His eyes shadowed. "Someday. For now, I have people depending on me. And I believe in what we do."

She squeezed his wrist. "I understand. For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you. Rebuilding the shield."

He nodded. Then he said, "All right. How about you show me around this town of yours?"

Clint drained the last of his beer and stood, taking Nat's hand as she straightened as well. "Come on. We know a great lunch place down the beach."

*

Coulson was on his way back to Caracas to head home, and Nat had the crowds in the bar to keep her busy all night. Then Clint finally shooed the last stumbling patron out and locked the door. He walked across the empty room towards her. "You all right?"

She was sitting on the bar, barefoot, sipping a glass of vodka. "Not sure," she said quietly. Honesty had been coming a little easier to her lately. She thought it was important to . . . whatever it was they were doing to try to be open with him. Even when it hurt.

He sat on a barstool, and put his hand one her knee, rubbing gently. "We did do good, Tasha."

"I know," she said. And most of the time, she did know that. "Just not as much as I thought I had. I don't know how to balance it. I accepted a long time ago that the red was never going to be all gone. But I thought I was making progress. That I could be on the side of angels, even if I wasn't one. And now I don't. . . I don't know how to balance it," she said again, sipping her drink.

"One night, couple months back, Steve and I got talking about the Battle. It was kind of hard to avoid the topic, you know, living there. He told me about being completely startled by your suggestion that the solution to the portal 'wasn't about guns'. It had not occurred to him, or to any of us, that there was an answer that didn't involve having a bigger stick than the next guy. But that's what you do—cut through all the testosterone and ego, right to the heart."

She mulled on that a moment. "Well. I am the chick." She gave him a little smile. "We did good that day. I've never doubted that."

"The battle was turning, and not in a good way. If you hadn't closed the portal when you did, we'd have been overrun."

She nodded and drained her glass, slipping off the bar to stand between his legs. She rubbed his thighs, the fabric of his jeans worn and soft under her palms "We've earned this, haven't we?" she asked quietly. "Being together, not fighting anymore. I'm. . . happy here. I feel safe. And sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat expecting it to be taken away. _You_ to be taken away. Because I don't deserve it."

He slid his arms around her. "There's nobody judging us. Nobody to decide what we deserve. Except for us." 

It was a little awkward, but she leaned close enough to put her head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat. "I love you."

He kissed her hair. "I love you. If you hadn't shown up in Mexico I would have spent the rest of my life searching for you."

"I'd have done the same. If you hadn't been there." She stood still, listening to his heart, his breath. Letting the silence wrap around them. "I think we deserve this," she said finally. 

She could hear the smile in his voice. "Each other?"

"Each other. Our little cantina. Nooners. Peace and a normal life."

She felt him nod, and then he whispered, "Come upstairs."

The words sent a little shiver down her spine. She'd long ago thought herself immune to passion. To need. But just a few naughty words or a touch from him and she was ready to come out of her skin for him. She lifted her head to kiss him, then stepped back so he could slid off the stool. "We were interrupted earlier. Weren't we?"

"Yes. And since we've established we deserve nooners, the universe clearly owes us one of those nights we don't really sleep."

She grinned and put her hands on his shoulder, jumping. He caught her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She kissed him deeply, cupping the back of his head in one hand. "Take me to bed, Barton," she murmured against his mouth.

He groaned. "I can really only promise as far as the table."

"We should move the bed closer to the door."

"That's a very poor tactical position," he commented, kicking through the kitchen door. "I am still me."

She nipped at his ear, legs tightening on him as he started on the stairs up to the apartment. "Maybe a futon near the table then. Switch it up a bit." Her left hand snaked down and fished the key out of his pocket. 

They unlocked the door, and left a trail of clothing on their way to the bedroom—which they did make it to. The windows were open so the sea breeze could help combat the heat, and she was pretty sure that on this particular night, all of their neighbors heard them. They needed it, though. The release. The affirmation of life and love and the promises they'd made to each other, verbal and not. The assurance that this was real and in no danger of ending.

Afterwards, they lay sprawled on the bed, Clint's head on her stomach, his fingers tracing her tattoo as she stroked his hair. Only six months after their adventure in Alaska and they'd learned to live in the silences again. "Do you think this is what normal marriages are like?" she asked finally, voice jarring in the quiet.

"I hear they have less sex," he replied.

"Poor bastards," she murmured. She looked down at him, his dark hair against her skin. She thought about telling him she loved him again. Now that she was free to say it she found she liked the sound of it, the immediate echo from him. "I like normal," she said instead.

He shifted so he could look up at her. "Neither of us really have models for normal. I suppose it's what we choose it to be."

"I think that's what I meant. We're not normal. Our pasts will always be there. The future is always going to have a vague uncertainty to it. But this, right here, that we've carved out? It's nice. It's normal."

He looked at her seriously for a moment. "There's something I want to buy. The next time we're in a town big enough to have real stores."

Her fingers wound through his hair again. "What is it?"

His eyes searched her face, and she watched the emotions shift in them. She loved that none of them were dark anymore. He leaned a little into her touch, and said, "Rings."

She flexed her left hand unconsciously, then lifted it to touch the little arrow necklace she still wore. The idea didn't fill her with dread or panic or any of the negative emotions she might have expected. It surprised her a little. But as she let the thought settle she found she liked it. She nodded, just once, firmly. "Simple ones."

He grinned at her, and she realized then he'd been holding his breath. "We are bartenders."

"We can go whenever you want. Can I still wear my necklace?"

"Of course. In fact, if you consider that—" he broke off and shrugged, looking oddly embarrassed. "I don't have a necklace."

"Oh," she said softly. She tugged his hair lightly, meeting him halfway for a gentle kiss. "I suppose it is past time I marked my territory, hmm?"

"I don't know where the impulse came from. It just seemed normal, I guess."

"No. I understand. I like the necklace. What it represents. I'd like to see my ring on your finger."

He rested his head back down on her breasts. "Good."

She played with his hair idly a while longer. "I was thinking. For my shoulder tattoo. I might get a hawk. But now I'm not sure. Will that bother you? The reminder?"

"No. Not at all. I still do, you know, occasionally hunt things from a tree branch." He watched her. "That's very permanent."

"You are and always will be an enormous part of my life," she said, feeling an odd sense of serenity. "I imagine we'll fight and hurt each other as we try to figure out what we are without SHIELD or missions or weapons. But we've survived Russian brain washing, alien brain washing, an averted apocalypse and Alaska. I feel confident we're stuck with each other for the duration." She looked down to meet his gaze. "Don't you?"

"Might be the only thing I _am_ confident of, some days."

She nodded and stroked her hand down his back, letting it wander. He had promised to keep her up all night. "Rings and tattoos. So the whole world knows we belong to each other."

He pressed a kiss against her skin. "Sounds perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is over but the series is not! A new tale of Clint and Nat is coming. Current plan is to have it up on the 27th with a Friday posting schedule.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting!


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